


The SCP Files of The Dream SMP

by FireflyAndTheStoryJar



Category: Dream SMP - Fandom
Genre: Bad Ending, Blood and Gore, Body Horror, Canon Divergence, Dream Smp, Fluff and Angst, Hanging, Hurt No Comfort, Resurrection, SCP inspired, SCP-701, Torture, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-02
Updated: 2021-02-02
Packaged: 2021-03-13 07:29:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,793
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29149746
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FireflyAndTheStoryJar/pseuds/FireflyAndTheStoryJar
Summary: I can't forget these stories, no matter how much I want to. If I don't remember... they might happen for real. I can't let any of this happen to them. I can't let him do this to them.To anyone who finds this, it must mean something went wrong for me. If... If you're able to travel like I did, don't forget who you are. Don't forget these stories, and the ones that you find. Good luck and... and I hope things don't go as wrong as they seemed to have gone for me.P.S. STAY AWAY FROM THE ONE THAT---K. Jacobs
Kudos: 7





	The SCP Files of The Dream SMP

_ scraaaaaatch... tap... tap. _

_ scraaaaaatch... tap... tap. _

A darkened fingernail, sharpened to a jagged point by the bone it sat upon, tapped and scratched at the shiny pyrite armrest its owner’s arm laid upon. The bony limb was hidden in a dark blue, long sleeve that was faded and ripped from its weathering of life, death, and unending torture its owner decided to subject himself and it to. Up past the arm and over the faded colors of a kingly robe revealed a pale and thin face, its skin bruised and rotting in the area around a broken jaw hinge. Past the atrocity that was his dissolving teeth of nails were the sunken eyes that stared painfully forward at the doorway their owner had walked through so many times before.

It had been a while, even though time was never really there, yet the painful squeezing of the chain noose told him that he hadn’t moved since he had sat upon his ironic throne. Then there were the large iron spikes in his thighs, forearms, and head that told him he wouldn’t be moving anytime soon. Never, if the puppet patriarch knew how things like this ended.

A golden crown made of the same fool’s gold his throne sat atop his head, digging into his scalp, his skull, and further still. It had attached itself the moment he had walked into his burning and twisted castle of stone. Forced him forward into the royal seat of irony, then had him impaled and sealed in a fate he couldn’t scream out of. Screaming helped emotionally in the early days. Did nothing for him and his melted vocal cords now.

Very little outside of his realm knew of his plight and his supposed kingdom of distortion. Stories of a king being dethroned and hanged with fiery chains were heard, whispers of riots of blood and teary screams chilled the air they spun in. All true, of course, but nothing caught the full and demented truth.

\----

Eret, a king of a humble land and appointed by a powerful team of three, hadn’t been expecting visitors to his colorful castle of stone. A blonde man with bandaged hands and a forest green cloak came to him, a used axe of midnight in hand and a dirty smiling mask in tow. A darker haired male with a white bandana stood at his left while a shorter male with blue and brown eyes hidden behind some glasses stood to his right as they approached the king. He greeted them warmly, even as his shoulders tensed under his pink, purple, and blue robes. There were no returned pleasantries.

Outside, allies of the powerful three stood at the ready, some writhing in what could be called bloodthirsty anticipation while others just burned with hatred. The king wasn’t truly for them— a sympathizer of another country wasn’t fit to lead them. A few among them were of that sympathized country were there too, a young blonde and the hazy memory of a fallen leader, in support of the dethroning of an old traitor. This wasn’t the case soon, though.

After fighting, then pleading, then struggling, the king without his golden crown was wrangled out into the fray and thrown to the mob now lost in a frenzy of hatred. The green one watched as his two underlings joined in, smirking like a hungry wolf as he watched. His eyes met the spirit’s, received a watery blink, then watched as the ghost turned and flew away to watch from afar. His fellow companion didn’t join, influenced into joining the beating of a kind soul.

The iron butt of a sword connected with Eret’s jaw with a sickening pop and loud crack, though the unnatural sounds washed away by the erupting scream of agony escaping his bloodied maw. His jaw hung limp as a man with a gas mask splattered with warm colors wrapped his neck up in netherite chains. The untreated metal burned the degraded king’s neck, blood sizzling and fizzing as his skin was broken under the boiling. The colorblind of the group, lost in the madness befallen upon them, wrapped Eret’s wrists and ankles in the same burning metal before a white-cladded soldier started to pull. Jeers were thrown at the disgraced king as the trek began.

The crying and sniffling and screaming continued to grate on the ears of both the pack of men and the earth around them, blood trailing on the beaten path towards the swirling portal of Hell. Heat enveloped the mob when the spat on and bloodied king was dragged through, his clothes and robes ripping and tearing as the hot and jagged ground of crimson rock was traveled over. They stopped only when they reached a nearby tree, its blue bark dull and its branches left leafless because of its internal sickness. The leading chain’s tail was thrown over the highest branch and then was pulled. And pulled. And pulled.

Higher, the struggling body was yanked, and more blood came rushing out and spattering the face of the youngest blonde. Eventually, the struggle stopped. The chain was pinned in place with a reinforced arrow, letting the limp figure slowly sway and drip. Stifling silence fell over the crowd that stared at the body of the bloody and beaten King Eret. The stillness traveled amongst the witnesses and beyond. A baker paused in her mixing of eggs as a chill crawled up her spine. A young boy checking on his bees dropped his jar of honey as a feeling of terror seized him.

The green one’s hidden smile only grew more wicked as his cult following quickly left the body to hang in the hellscape. The blonde boy awoke the next morning hearing the king’s voice chuckling sickeningly in his ears. When he told of the laughter that plagued his waking hours, he was shunned and sent away, abandoned by those who knew not of what happened to the Hanged King. Crows chased away the bees. Eggs became hard to come by.

A fox man, the baker, and all those who enjoyed the bloodlust grew sickly the next day, unable to move from their beds. The young blonde was too far to feel the sickness, but his mind grew twisted under the isolation. The masked man visited each ill party, in perfect health despite his equally reddened hands. He told of chains coming to join the murderers, and his laugh echoed with the crows as he left to watch the corrupted part of his little world rot and decay.

The woman baker healed in the morning after, though she craved things that tasted of iron. Baking wasn’t important to her anymore, as she started a trade of steaks that we’re on the rawer side when cooked. The fox man was fine as well, though his dreams, he later stated after the fall of the King’s land, were tinged with ruby and the scraping of chains. The others didn’t get better. Some, like the man in a red, yellow, and black gas mask, remained stuck in their beds, crying out for blood and water and strength to move. Their minds twisted similarly to the exiled blonde’s own, all craving the same misery of others that had started their torment.

The rest, including the green man’s own partners, were driven mad, scratching at their throats and faces until their fingers and shirts became sticky with life essence. They attacked each other and anyone nearby, some stabbing at one another while others tried to find ways to hurt themselves. No lives ended, leaving all of them wounded, scarred, and deranged. The crows cried their wicked laugh, sending animals running into the country over to escape the dying land. Things only worsened.

A figure limped from the purple swirls of the fiery dimension into the dying land around him, jaw swinging as he made his way past colorful and bright buildings. A single chain clung to and trailed after him, the burning metal around his neck sizzling from the blood touching it. Its cut off tail was clearly visible against the faded robes that hid the Hanged King’s back, a sign of his burden evident always.

He approached his burning castle, the colors gone and the walls crumbling under his arrival. His crown, once shiny and lined with lovely lesser jewels, was now a chipped and dull ornament lying uselessly on the ground. The king, chuckling, picked it up and put it back on his head, dull curls of brown hiding the teeth of metal that was growing from it. It sunk down and attached painfully to his brain as he walked through his main corridor to his throne, the painful biting making him scream a distorted note, shrill and sharp and painful. The crown forced him forward. Steps were agony until the pyrite throne of spikes was in front of him.

The Hanged King Eret was forced into his seat by his object of greed and power, the iron spikes lodging into muscles and bones and nerves. His rotten body screamed in burning pain, his vocal chords straining and snapping with his loud and terrifying bellowing. Those that jeered him became marked by a symbol of a crown with a jagged noose dangling under it on their backs, damning them to demand more pain from themselves and those around them. The escaped teen escaped that cruel fate, yet was not seen for a very long time. No one who was free had seen him, not even his ghostly brother.

\----

The Hanged King was given freedom to move when the green man came to visit, though it was only within his crumbling and hellish hot walls that he was allowed to traverse. The king was in pain whenever he moved, but with regret and hatred still boiling in him, he determinedly looked out his empty window frame. His world was twisted into greys and pale purples, and when he caught glances of those who aided in his death, he would become so inflamed with pain, that his nonexistent voice would somehow find the strength to screech. The sound scared off the changed beings coming to see his pain, but it brought little reprieve for the murdered royal.

“Enjoy your pretty little crown. You’ll come in useful one day, so never forget who did this to you.” The man in green spoke, voice dripping with saccharine charm. Eret croaked out a hum, his voice slurred and barely there. His jaw swung lightly as he painfully bowed his stiff head to his puppet master, the crows cawing their laughter at how broken he was now. The green man joined in as he left. And they laughed, laughed, laughed.

Or so the crows say.


End file.
